Missing in Action
by Shurely
Summary: The Dragonborn has panicked and is about to confront the Thalmor who imprisoned Thorald Gray-Mane. It's time to show that she's not a complete coward. Inspired by personal experience during the mission.


She held her breath, feeling the cold embrace of her steel armour around her skin, muscles tensed and frozen. Just beyond the stairs was a Thalmor archer, fidgeting as she paced around the room. How amusing – to think that she must be skilled a bow but was completely unaware of the dwarven arrow aimed at her throat.

Her heart thudded, and then she collapsed, gurgling inarticulately. The Dragonborn crept forward, fitting another arrow to take out the guard posted just around the corner. The faint whistle as the arrow pierced the guard's chest broke the silence, but once again no noise could be heard.

If she could have reasoned with them, she would have; however, she had panicked when she saw them stationed by the snow-laden trees, and accidentally loosed an arrow at one of their archers. What ensued was a bloody but unnecessary battle that lasted several minutes, as she fought off the frozen gale deadening her limbs and swords clashing against her own. When their corpses stained the white ground red and she had healed herself sufficiently, she had entered the depths of the fort.

And there she was, clutching her enchanted orcish bow, straining to hear and see in the half-darkness. She skulked further downwards, the earthen tunnels twisting in a serpentine fashion. The temperature continued to drop until it was as unbearable as the winter wind howling outside. She surveyed every room she entered with a thief's trained eye, searching for loot that she could sell later when she returned to Whiterun.

iIf/i she returned to Whiterun.

But she knew better than to worry. She'd felled the feral Falmer, tackled dwarven automatons, and already slain enough dragons to no longer require her assistance from the giants or followers. Assassinating a few elven guards was a trifling task compared to her other feats. She'd be back in Breezehome, sitting lazily by the fire and sipping hot broth in no time. Of course, she would probably be accompanied by that Gray-Mane prisoner; dragging him along would prove a nuisance if he was unfit to travel by his own means.

All the same, her mission was not yet completed – she would worry about the minor details later. She paused, detecting the rhythmic thuds of a guards striding about in the next room. Pressed against the wall, she peered around the corner and spotted him immediately: one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, sighing impatiently, golden elven armour glinting in the torchlight. He was obviously waiting for something – or someone – and had neglected the plate of bread and cheese on the desk in the corner. Inhaling deeply, she raised her bow and nocked another arrow, warily watching his agitated movements. She ihated/i moving targets, but this guard showed no signs of relenting his routine of circling the centre of the room. There was a muffled twang and he gasped, hands groping the shaft of the arrow protruding from his torso. Then a second arrow embedded itself in his skull, and he toppled over, dead before he hit the dirt.

The Dragonborn retrieved the arrows, also pocketing the remains of the guard's wage tucking in his satchel. The sword he had wielded was weak and badly forged; it was a pitiful sight next to her enchanted sword that glowed amber when wetted with her opponent's blood. Casting a glance at the room, she decided to carry on.

The damp tunnels led her ultimately to a hall, where cobwebs bound rusted goblets and plates to the rotted wooden tables. The air smelled musky, with the foul stench of wasting flesh swiftly masking that of the decomposing wood. She wrinkled her nose, crouching in the shadows as she observed a Thalmor archer check his bow disinterestedly, and then stow it away. Resisting a grin at the irony, she shot him quickly; at the last second, her target shifted, and the arrow bounced harmlessly off the wall behind him. Startled by the noise, he drew his bow, calling out to his comrades for support.

Then he saw her, sword in one hand, electricity in the other, and yelled. The Dragonborn thrust out her left hand, unleashing a torrent of azure lightning, and followed up by sprinting over to him and slashing downwards. Instantaneously, he was set aflame; she smirked at his terrified expression from beneath his helmet, and hastily shoved her sword through his gut.

A stab of pain caught her shoulder, and she stumbled for cover. Dismissing the searing heat flooding about the wound, she yanked out the arrow, gritting her teeth to stop herself from crying out. A voice called out from beyond the doors to her right, and a man pulled them open. He noticed the sparks in the Dragonborn's hand and barely had time to snarl before the electricity fried his skin and his body convulsed uncontrollably. She advanced, readying her sword, until the man whimpered and limped behind a wall. For a moment, nothing but the sound of her shallow breathing and his groaning could be heard.

The momentary respite was ended by a giant entity composed of brilliant white ice materialising. She swore, dropping to the gorund as a shard passed over her head – a shard that surely would have cleaved her neck in two, regardless of armour. An ice atronach – the man had apparently conjured the spirit to aid him.

Knowing there was a limit to the duration of the spirit's appearance, she straightened up and turned heel, almost colliding with the Thalmor archer who had shot her earlier. She nicked the elf with the edge of her blade, but did not have the opportunity to finish her off: by the time the archer had registered surprise, she had scrambled back through the tunnel where she'd entered the hall.

Stomping behind her was the ice atronach, unable to fit its bulky frame into the tunnel to pursue her. She counted out the seconds to herself, finally striking and killing the archer when she foolishly came after her, only to find a sword arcing through the air as she rounded a corner.

Yet the Dragonborn was not a complete coward: she heard the hiss of the spirit's evaporation, and emerged from the tunnel to confront the man, who had been waiting for her. However, before he could spray her with flames, she opened her mouth and a thunderous iboom/i echoed all around, sending the man flying and cracking his spine against the wall. Smiling triumphantly, she drove her sword into his torso, and he spluttered. The echoes faded as she sheathed her sword and exchanged it for her bow, once again sneaking stealthily to locate the prisoner.

By a brazier up the stairs, she found a locked chest. It looked relatively untouched, perhaps storing Thalmor trinkets and maybe even a scroll. Unlocking it, she found to her satisfaction a considerable amount of gold, jewellery, and potions, as well as a scroll to boot. Continuing onwards, she frowned in concentration as she aimed at a guard relaxing in her chair. She must have been deaf to a certain degree for not hearing the screams of her Thalmor comrades back in the hall and the splintering of the glass-like shards upon the walls.

When the guard sat lifeless in her chair, glazed eyes unblinking, the Dragonborn entered a torture chamber, and jumped in shock – literally, a mage sent a flurry of sparks that boiled her blood and made her wince. She retaliated by rapidly switching her bow for her sword, and, as soon as she had a tight grip on it, hacked at the mage's flimsy robes. Blood gushed from his fatal wounds, and soon he was as dead as the others she had killed before him.

She saw who she thought was Thorald Gray-Mane chained to the stones, and blasted the manacles. He gabbled to her, but she only half-listened; a key was hidden on the mage's body, and she kept it in hand as she gestured for him to follow her to freedom. Opening a set of doors with said key, she saw a guard waiting at the end of the tunnel, and pulled out her bow. Thorald regarded her intently as she sucked in her breath and loosed an arrow that impaled the guard's neck. Walking down the tunnel, she raised her eyebrows at the four prisoners curled up on their bedrolls. She spared a second to examine the locks of their cells, and knew definitely that she could not open the cells: the locks were far too complicated.

Once outside, she relished the fresh albeit freezing air, cracking her knuckles and rolling her shoulders. Thorald thanked her sincerely, and she inclined her head in return. Then he sprinted off into the trees, wearing mere rags. She chuckled: his will may be mighty, but a tortured, weakened body was not. The harsh weather would kill him more painfully than any Thalmor mage. Shaking her head, she wandered why she had ever released him. Now he would go join the Stormcloaks – her enemy – and that meant yet another unnecessary death for the sake of peace…or whatever.

So much for a rescue mission.


End file.
